


Theirs but to do and die

by randomisedmongoose



Series: Armata Strigoi [1]
Category: Powerwolf (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Blood and Gore, Crimean War, Gen, Vampires, Werewolves, i'm an atheist potato who loves the ritz of catholicism sorry, mentions of Attila/Falk but not the focus of the story, so much catholic imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23549086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomisedmongoose/pseuds/randomisedmongoose
Summary: In the Crimean War, a legion of eight regiments recruited in Germany fought for the British. Most of them came back alive, having seen little or no combat. Some fought and died. Some died… and came back undead.
Series: Armata Strigoi [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813237
Comments: 8
Kudos: 7





	1. Eucharist

**Author's Note:**

> I have time to spare these days, and started listening to more power metal. Stumbled onto Powerwolf and found out that there’s a fandom. For an over-the-top theatrical metal band? Count me the fuck in! So here is an origin story for our undead boys. The title is from “The Charge of the Light Brigade” by Tennyson, depicting one of the most iconic moments of the war. This isn’t really an accurate historic depiction mind you, but the British German Legion was a real thing, as is the Crimean fever and the portable organ. The undead, sadly, are not.

Soft organ music was drifting over the muddy encampment that housed the British German Legion. Despite its name, there were men from all over Europe here, recruited from harbours and taverns, not all of them entirely freely. The conflict between the Ottoman Empire and its allies on one hand and the Russian Empire on the other was entering a new stage, prompting the armies to prepare to move from their entrenched position in Wallachia towards the shores of the Black Sea. But at the moment, there was a rare moment of tranquillity for the troops as their officers were busy planning their next move. Men were lounging about, cleaning weapons, playing cards, chatting and eating.

_“Feldkaplan!”_

Pater Attila Dorn was sorting sheet music when the call woke him from his quiet reverie. He looked over his shoulder, and his face lit up as he saw the two long-haired men walking briskly towards him, outlined by the afternoon sun. Now here were people he was always glad to see. Charles and Matthew – Germans of the Jäger Corps, both of them; brothers, jokers and brawlers, not averse to some wine and a smoke in the night. Strange, though, they were usually accompanied by a third, a tall dutchman. He put the papers down and turned to greet the approaching men.

“Aha, it’s my Greywolves! It’s good to see you, lads.” As they came up to him, he grabbed both men by the neck and dragged them into a crushing embrace. After a while, Charles patted his arm rather urgently and Attila released them with a booming laugh, allowing them to draw breath again.

Charles pushed his long hair out of his eyes and slapped the priest on the shoulder. “Good to see you too, pater!”

Attila shook his hand and grinned. “Where’s that friend of yours? The drummer boy, what’s his name, van Helden? He hangs around you constantly otherwise.” The brothers exchanged a glance and nodded.

“Roel. He’s sick, pater. Been these few days. He came down with the fever. That’s, um, that’s why we wanted to talk to you, actually…” Matthew glanced at Charles again, who egged him on with a gesture. Matthew rubbed his neck sheepishly.

“He’s in a bad way. Could you come and… uh. You know. Give him some of the good word? He always enjoyed your sermons.” He bent forward and lowered his voice. “And some of that good wine, too, maybe?”

Attila chuckled. “Of course. Anything to warm his blood and make him feel better.” He turned to the tent and shouted. “Falk! Come, man, assist me!”

The music coming from the tent stopped. There was some rustling, and a skinny man with short hair and a shy smile stepped out. Attila beamed and put an arm around him, an oddly possessive gesture.

“You’ve met cantor Schlegel, I presume?”

Charles smiled and put his hand out. “Not face to face, but I’ve heard you many times. You’re an excellent organist, cantor. Your music really lifts our spirits.”

Falk blushed and shook his hand. “Thank you. Call me Falk, please, you don’t have to be so formal. We’re all down here in the muck together, after all.”

“Too true!” Charles laughed as Falk shook hands with Matthew as well.

Attila rubbed his hands together. “Their friend is down with the fever. We thought to go and bring him a little something to cheer him up.” He wiggled his eyebrows at the cantor. Falk grinned, and ducked back into the tent. Afters some more rustling, he came back with two dusty bottles of red wine.

“Excellent. And, uh… bring your little portative too. Give the man some of that fine music, eh?” Falk nodded and opened a squarish leather bag that stood on a bench by the side of the tent. Inside was what liked like a miniature church organ, complete with pipes, keys and bellows, but small enough to be carried slung over the shoulder. Matthew raised an eyebrow and looked impressed. Falk smiled as he ran his hand gently over the keys.

Attila clapped his hands decisively. “Let’s be off!”

The men set off towards the field hospital. The bleeding fever was an ever-present threat to soldiers on both sides – it came from ticks and spread like wildfire in the squalid conditions of the camps. So far, it had claimed nearly as many lives as the fighting, and occupied a considerable part of the war’s medical efforts. As they came up to the large tent, the nurses greeted the group warmly and immediately surrounded Attila, speaking in hushed voices with the priest. He nodded solemnly and let them kiss the crucifix before he went inside.

Inside were four long rows of beds, most of them occupied. Attila went between the rows and talked to each man who wanted, blessing them and giving a few encouraging words until they reached the end of the line. The man in the bed was unusually tall with the muscular arms and shoulders of a drummer. He had masses of dark bruises on his torso and arms, dark circles under his eyes, and a sheen of sweat covered his shaved head. Matthew and Charles helped him sit up while Falk arranged himself on a chair nearby and started to play a soft melody on the portable organ.

Roel smiled. “Good of you to come see me, pater.”

Attila sat down beside the bed. ”Anything for a friend.“ He furtively took out the bottle of wine and poured a generous measure into Roel’s cup. “Get some heat into you, man, you look like Death himself.”

Roel sipped on the wine and grimaced. “Death is about right, pater. They say it’s going bad fast for me. I’m afraid I’ll hear more angelic music than this before long.”

Attila laid a hand on his knee and squeezed. “None of that talk. You’ll meet no angels tonight, van Helden. You’ll live, and you’ll grace us with your drumming for many months yet. All the way until we get to go home, eh?”

Roel nodded, but didn’t look convinced. They sat and chatted for a while, drinking more of the wine, listening to Falk’s playing and reminiscing of past adventures in hushed voices. Suddenly, Charles straightened up and listened intently, holding out a hand towards the cantor.

“Falk… stop for a second.”

Falk stopped playing and listened as well. There was faint screaming in the distance, the sound of rifles firing. Charles jumped up and ran to the tent opening, pushing a worried nurse out of the way. He could see smoke and hear the sound of cannons far off.

“Bloody hell! It’s the Russians!”

A couple of the youngest nurses screamed, and they flocked to the opening to look out. Charles swore, got out of the throng and ran back to Roel’s bed.

“Come on, we gotta go!” He scrambled to put on the gear he’d laid on the floor. When he noticed that his brother wasn’t doing the same, he kicked at Matthew’s leg. “What are you _doing_? We’re being attacked! We need to join the others!”

Matthew hesitated, one hand on the drummer’s shoulder. “Charles… what about Roel? He can’t run in this state.” He looked around at the other men in the tent and lowered his voice. “None of them can. We can’t leave him here, he’ll be slaughtered!”

Charles froze. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” He threw his pack on the ground. “ _Shit!_ ”

Attila looked from Charles to Roel to Matthew, then took a swig from the wine bottle, emptying it in one draught, and threw it into the corner. He stood up.

“Come, Falk. We need to get him out of here.”

Falk jumped to his feet as well. “What?! We can’t just leave in the middle of a fight, they’ll kill us for desertion,” he hissed.

“They’ll kill us anyway, lad,” the priest snarled. “These Russian devils aren’t here to dance! We don’t have a chance in hell without weapons. They’ll soon come in here and they’ll stick every one of these men like pigs. If we take him, we might save one life at least.” He leaned down and whispered in Falk’s ear. “Besides, this may be the moment we’ve been waiting for.”

Falk swallowed hard, nodded and quickly packed the portative into its leather case. The brothers looked at each other.

“Fuck,” Charles growled under his breath. “Yeah, you’re right, you bastard. Pater, Falk – you get him out of here. We’ll cover you.”

Both brothers threw their kits on, then ran back to the opening, crouched and peered out of the half-closed tent flap as they loaded their rifles. Meanwhile, Falk and Attila helped Roel out of bed. The drummer could barely stand and had to lean on them for support.

Falk looked at Attila as he wrangled the leather strap over his head with one hand. “He can’t run, how are we going to-“

“I’ll carry him if I need to,” Attila interrupted.

Falk scoffed. “He’s a head taller than you!”

“Are you _arguing_ with me?” Attila growled at him across Roel’s chest.

Falk looked away. “No, I guess.”

Roel watched the little exchange with a crooked smile. “Burn that bridge when we get there, eh? Let’s get the fuck out first.”

Matthew waved them over urgently from the tent door. “It’s clear, we can go!”

They ran as fast as they could, which meant a hobbled half-jog in Roel’s case, moving from tent to tent along the edge of the training ground, keeping out of sight as much as possible. Small fights were breaking out here and there – the Russians had apparently broken through the defences, but were not in force yet.

A group of Russian soldiers crossed their route some fifty meters ahead, and the commanding officer barked out a command, sending four men their way. Attila let go of Roel as Matthew went down on one knee with Charles stepping in behind him. They fired at the same time and two soldiers fell, but the rest kept coming. One ran towards Attila, bayonet forward, but the priest sidestepped him with surprising agility and pulled out the second wine bottle. As the man passed him, he smashed it over the Russian’s head, sending him crashing to the ground. 

A burly man with huge muttonchops ran towards Falk and Roel, sabre at the ready, screaming something incomprehensible. Charles pushed them out of the way and whacked the butt of his rifle across the soldier’s face. As the man reeled from the hit, Charles turned the rifle and drove his bayonet into the man’s stomach, twisting it as he went. Blood welled from the Russian’s mouth and he scrabbled weakly at the rifle until Charles kicked him off, screaming at the others to grab Roel and run.

They reached the edge of the forest without further incident, the towering trees clearly marking the border between wilderness and civilisation. The brothers took point, moving fast but careful. It was strange how quickly the sounds of battle disappeared, swallowed by the heavy oaks and the dense bramble thickets. They moved due north for about half an hour, stopping only occasionally to listen for sounds of pursuit and to let Roel breathe. It had started to rain and thick droplets were splashing down, making the forest floor damp and treacherous. The drummer almost slipped and fell several times, but the others steadied him. They continued on, increasingly slower, until a shape loomed in the creeping dusk – a stone building, with towers and a tall steeple, in disrepair and crumbling but still standing.

Charles patted Attila’s arm. “What the fuck..? It’s- it’s a church, pater, look!”

Attila grabbed the ornate crucifix around his neck with one hand and kissed it fervently. “Hallelujah,” he muttered. He took a couple of tired steps towards the building, but Matthew stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Let us check first. There might be Russian troops or wild animals in there.” The priest nodded, and the three men hung back by a large oak as the brothers slowly crept forward, rifles loaded and ready.

The churchyard held a smattering of crosses and stones, some fallen or broken, all overgrown with lichen and ivy. Matthew rubbed at one of them, but couldn’t make out the name. The earth was muddy and disturbed and looked like a wild boar had been rooting in it. The church itself was more or less intact, but parts of the roof had fallen in and the top of the steeple was broken with no sign of what it had held before, be it cross or weathervane. There was an old well to the side of the entrance.

The heavy main doors were partly ajar. Charles slowly pushed them open and they entered the narthex. The font lay on its side, smashed to pieces against the stone slabs. The doors to the church proper lay broken on the floor, allowing them to see the interior in the growing dusk. They walked slowly up the nave, past row after row of dry-rotted pews. Stone statues of martyrs and saints looked back at them from the niches that lined the crumbling walls. Or rather, did not look back, as every single statue had had its eyes hacked out, or sometimes the entire head removed. Matthew shuddered.

Up in the apse, the altar still stood with a mouldering cloth draped over it. Charles looked up at the roof. The paintings were marred by mould, paint flaking or gone entirely. There was a big hole in the south side of it, letting in the last of the sunlight along with quite a bit of rain. There was no crucifix, just a smear of wet soot on the wall where it should have hung. He went up to it and kicked the piles of rotten leaves on the floor, revealing a mess of old charcoal and burnt nails. Meanwhile, Matthew crept along the north transept and found the door to the sacristy. It had also been torn off; the hinges ripped from the frame with considerable force. The little room seemed to have been tossed at some point, and there was a weird smell. He grimaced and re-joined his brother by the altar. Charles was rolling a nail between his fingers with a worried expression, and looked up when Matthew approached.

“What do you think, Matt? Is it okay?”

“It’s fucking weird, is what it is.” He looked over at the blind statues and shuddered. “But beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.”

Charles hummed an agreement. The brothers went back to the little group huddled under the long oak branches, trying to keep out of the rain. Matthew bent down and checked on Roel, who was drenched and looked miserable. Attila tried to scrape off some mud from his shoes against the tree.

“You got a verdict? Can we use it?”

Matthew looked up. “It’s empty. Spooky as all hell, but empty. A couple of holes in the roof, but it’s dry enough.”

“Gratias Deo, then let’s get out of this fucking rain. Up you go, van Helden.” He hauled Roel to his feet.

Inside the church, they decided on a dry spot along the south wall, near the doors. As the brothers helped the drummer lie down, Falk looked around and ran off towards the sacristy. A minute later he returned with an armful of mouldy vestments and old altar cloths, which he bunched up and put under Roel’s upper body and head to give him at least a semblance of comfort.

“What else can we do for him besides keep him warm?” Charles asked as he tucked the ends of a threadbare funeral pall around Roel’s feet.

Falk shrugged. “I know the ladies Florence and Mary say that the sick should be washed, but that’s it. I’m no medic.”

Charles shook his head. “Not doing that with cold water, that can never be good. Besides, he’s wet as a dog already. Fire it is. But it’s going to take a miracle to find any dry kindling in this weather.” He looked out into the heavy rain.

Falk got up and went over to one of the pews. He pensively ran his hands along the backrest – it seemed dry enough, almost brittle with age. He turned to the feldkaplan and gestured to the pew.

“Attila… do you think we could…?”

Attila stopped shaking the water from his coat, nodded and looked around. His eyes came to rest on a heavy cast iron candle holder, fallen over and nearly buried in leaves by the open doors. He grinned, grabbed it and hefted it in one hand, feeling the weight of it, then joined Falk by the old pew.

“Holy Father in heaven, forgive us this transgression against your house, but our brother Roel is in dire straits. Mater Maria, help your earthly children with some fucking light…” He raised the candle holder in the air and brought it down on the pew, which cracked under the force of the blow. He raised the heavy iron rod again and bellowed as he brought it down a second time. “In nomine Patris et Fili et Spiritus Sancti, aaaaamen!”

The pew split apart, spraying them with splinters, and Attila laughed and grinned at Charles. “Sometimes we make our own miracles.”


	2. Confirmation

The night fell, and the storm was hitting the forest in force, now. Rumbles of thunder rolled over the landscape, accompanied by flashes of light. The rain came down in sheets and dripped through the cracks in the roof, creating a symphony of _plops_ and _plinks_. The five men were gathered around the fire, Roel prone on the pile of cloth, fast asleep.

The brothers were sitting back to back, supporting each other as Charles cleaned his rifle and Matthew sang softly to himself with closed eyes. Attila sat with his rosary in one hand, slowly shifting the clay beads with his fingers while staring out into empty space. The other arm was draped over Falk’s shoulder. The cantor sat with his portative on his knees, listening intently to Matthew’s singing. When he’d found the thread of the song, he started to accompany the Jäger on the little instrument, creating a counterpoint. Matthew stopped singing, opened his eyes in surprise and looked over at Falk.

“Hey, that was really good.”

Falk grinned. “Heh. Thank you. I, uh, I don’t recognise that song.”

“I came up with it.”

Falk sat up a bit, dislodging Attila’s arm. “You write songs?”

Matthew shrugged. “It’s something to do on boring nights.”

“Please, do it again? I think we had something there.” Falk arranged the portative more comfortably and waited.

Matthew started up again, and Falk made variations on the theme until he found a harmony he liked. The other watched them. After two rounds, Attila started to sing along with the melody. His voice boomed and reverberated in the arches, accentuated here and there by the cracks of thunder. Charles put the rifle down and joined in with a bass harmony. They sang the completed song once more, and then let it go, the echoes dying out a second or three later. As the last note rang out, the silence was broken by the sound of an applause. Roel, awoken by the singing, was clapping his hands slowly.

“Didn’t think I’d ever hear busking in a church. Makes me wish I had my drum.”

Charles grinned. “Next time, man.”

There was a crack of thunder right above them. The lightning hit at the exact same time. The blinding flash hit the decrepit steeple and made it explode into a thousand fragments of half-molten stone and burning timbers. The whole church shook, and stones and dust rained down, scattering the campfire and pelting them with fist-sized rocks. Charles and Matthew threw themselves on top of Roel to shield him from the bombardment, and Attila pulled Falk against the wall and hunkered down beside a niche. A wooden beam crashed to the floor where they had sat, smashing the portable organ to pieces. After a while, the shaking stopped and the five men straightened up to look at the destruction.

They were no longer alone.

There was… something… standing inside the doors. Something humanoid, but impossibly long, with sallow, sunken features and feral, blood-red eyes. Shapes moved in its robes as it glided slowly towards them. In its wake, pieces of the shadows detached and flitted from darkness to darkness. Three huge wolves, shaggy and scarred, their fangs bared, stalked beside it, advancing on the men. Attila swore under his breath in a foreign language, then took two steps forward to stand in front of the others. He raised his crucifix and began chanting.

“Exorcizamos te, omnis immunde spiritus, omnis satanic potestas, omnis infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…”

The creature laughed and continued forward, unperturbed by the prayer. “The language of the evangelists can’t help you here. You tread on unhallowed ground, priest of the light. You trespass in our domain.” Its voice was like worms slithering through a rotten corpse, insinuating its way into your mind without bothering to pass the ears first.

Attila shuddered but kept the crucifix outstretched. “It is you who are the trespasser, demon! Name yourself, what unholy thing are you?”

The figure laughed again. “Do you not know us? We are the followers of night, the blessed of Cain and Lycaon, the children of baba Yaga. We are the strigoi, the moroi, we are vârcolac and pricolici. We heed the words of the Solomonari and dance with the dragons at midnight.” It spread its arms, and the shadows lengthened. “This place of power is ours now. The carpenter has no dominion here – we burned his symbol and defiled his martyrs, raised his corpses and pissed in his house.”

“It seems to me that the name of our Lord Jesus Christ burns in your mouth nonetheless, creature,” Attila growled.

The tall figure snarled at the mention of the holy name and brought its hands down. The shadows detached from its cape and spread out, surrounding the men, blocking their escape. The wolves crept towards the brothers, snarling and snapping, herding them backwards and cutting them off from the others.

The figure locked eyes with Attila. “You seek to spar with me, priest? Do you think yourself so mighty as to defeat me? Come then, and we shall test your mettle!”

It moved faster than humanly possible. Attila started to recite the Lord’s prayer as the creature advanced on him, but his words faltered as the tall, pale thing grabbed him by the throat with blinding speed and lifted him off the ground without any apparent effort. With his windpipe in a crushing grip, it brought him close, breathing in and smacking its thin lips as if tasting Attila’s scent as the man struggled and kicked.

“Aaaaah… Attila Dorn.” The creature threw him to the ground and placed one clawed foot on his torso. “I see you. I see your thoughts, your needs, your blinding, blasphemous passions. Hah. A hollow priest. So full of pride, bluster and holiness in the light, but in the dark… you are so much more like us. Liar. Thief. Fervent fornicator. Your vows, broken. Your creed, forgotten… all piousness lost for the sake of Earthly pleasure and a pretty face.”

The creature glanced sideways, its eyes falling on Falk.

“Ah… but who can stay chaste when Venus brings such exquisite gifts.” Its foot pushed hard on Attila’s chest, forcing the air out of him, then released. The shadows darkened around Attila, holding him down as it slithered to stand behind Falk, long fingers caressing his shoulders and throat. It put one clawed finger under the cantor’s chin, forcing it upwards as it drew a slow breath, face buried in the crook of his neck, exhaling with a grin.

“Falk Maria Schlegel. I see you. Blessed musician, playing the tunes of heaven and the games of hell. Failed clergyman, envious and poisonous impostor. Sacrilegious sinner, slave to sensation. Like us, you defile the holy places for your own satisfaction, caring for nothing and no one but yourself.”

The mists swirled around Falk, coalescing into shapes. Faces, arms, fingers elongated and distorted, all mouths and hands. The creature released Falk as the shadowy beings slipped unearthly hands underneath his clothes, touching, caressing, kissing. Attila screamed in rage as he struggled against the demons holding him, spewing hoarse curses and prayers at the creature, to no avail.

The pale thing smiled at him, revealing long, pointed teeth. “You two will be my prize. The blood of holy men tastes sweet, and even more so when they are oathbreakers. The others…” Suddenly, with impossible speed, it stood behind Charles and Matthew, one handful each of their long hair, pulling them close to smell their scent.

“Charles and Matthew Greywolf. I see you. Soldiers of the carpenter’s army. Dogs of war, holy hunters. You run in the woods, track the enemy, take them down in silence.” It released them with a disparaging snarl. “Who do you think you are, you who style yourself wolves? Stolen past, stolen name, stolen lives. Liars and deceivers, preying on the weak, faithless posing as faithful. Hunted you were in life, and hunted you will be until death.” The wolves drew closer, fangs dripping, tongues lashing.

A whisper in the air, and it kneeled down in front of Roel and stretched out one impossibly long arm. Roel crawled backwards, pressing up against the old, clammy stones of the wall. The hand was long-fingered with scarp claws that scraped across his skull, leaving bloody traces. It smeared his sweat and blood on its palm, then drew back to smell it. It gave a disgusted snort and stood up.

“Roel van Helden. I see you. Inciter of violence, marching to the beat of slaughter. Kin to us in wrath and harbinger of havoc. Killing to live, living to kill. Weak brother of the sea, betrayer of your own kind. Revelling in cowardice and lies, changing allegiance like others change coats.” It grinned. “You cannot run for our amusement. You are no holy man. Your blood is poisoned, worthless; you would taste foul and bitter. You will die soon enough without our help. Enjoy your last few moments on this Earth.” It turned to face the mass of creatures swarming around the five men. “To your sport, my children. But the hollow priest is _mine_.”

It pounced on Attila, ripping him from the grasp of the clinging shadows, and opened its mouth. It opened and opened, jaw unhinging like that of a snake. Then it sank its fangs into Attila’s throat. The priest gripped the sinewy arm, trying to rip it away, but he might as well have tried to move a mountain. The dark shapes pawing at Falk grew claws, long and sharp. The kissing mouths grew teeth like needles. They overwhelmed him, pushing down, and Falk was pinned to the floor, arms and legs held down as his clothes were ripped off. Ten, fifteen of the lesser demons fell upon him, biting and slashing, opening his veins and drinking as he began to scream in fear and pain.

Charles and Matthew tried to get to them, but the wolves closed in, herding them towards the doors, keeping them from intervening. Charles looked at Roel, shaking his head and mouthing “I’m sorry”. The drummer was still crawled up against the wall, eyes glazed over and disbelieving from fever and sheer panic. As the wolves pushed them out of the door Matthew could hear Falk’s screams cut off, and he swore through gritted teeth.

Out in the churchyard, wolves _changed_ – in one smooth movement of snapping bones and creaking joints, they raised up on two legs. The biggest one, a shaggy, black-furred female, raised its hackles, and leered at the brothers.

“Run,” she growled through a mouth not made for human speech. “Run, son of Adam. _RUN!_ ”

Charles grabbed Matthew and whirled around, sprinting towards the edge of the forest. A deep howl went up behind them, going on and on, joined by other and yet other voices. They dove in between the thick trees, desperately dodging branches and bushes.

“The camp,” Matthew panted. “South!” Charles nodded and slid around a boulder.

Running, running, not stopping, lungs burning, sides aching. They ran for what felt like an hour, growing more and more tired. And still, the wolves followed, showing no sign of relenting. There were more now, five, eight, twelve of the grey shadows running alongside them, howling. The rain had stopped, and the pale moon shone down through the clouds, illuminating the scene. It was nearly full. Charles stumbled, and Matthew slid to a halt and scrambled back, hoisting him up. When they turned, both froze in fear and confusion. The dark shape of the church stood in front of them, impossible to mistake even in the deep darkness.

Matthew stared at the building. “How…? How are we back here? We were supposed to be back to the camp by now!”

“I don’t know! We _were_ going south- I know the path, Matt, you know I do!” Charles wailed. Matthew wiped the sweat out of his eyes and began to answer, when a low growl from behind interrupted him. The brothers turned slowly.

The wolfpack stood behind them. The leader stalked towards them, becoming more humanoid with each step until she towered over them. She raised two huge fists and grinned.

“No more running, son of Adam? Then let’s play.” Her fangs glinted in the moonlight.

The wolfpack fell on Charles and Matthew. The last thing they saw was snapping fangs and tearing claws, before the pain and darkness claimed them.

* * *

Roel was shivering. He couldn’t tell if it was from the fever or the fear. The church was empty, the vengeful undead departed. They had left him in the corner like a piece of spoiled meat not even fit for the dogs. Roel groaned and, after a few false starts, managed to get up on his hands and knees. He wiped the sweat from his eyes, and looked around for Attila and Falk in the gloom.

The two men lay still on the floor. Falk was splayed out on the floor in a pool of his own blood, his skin ripped and torn from a thousand bites and scratches. Attila was a dark, unmoving heap in the corner. Slowly, Roel crept forward towards Falk. The cantor’s eyes were wide open and his face frozen in terror. The drummer put a trembling hand on his breast, but could feel no heartbeat, no breathing. Roel gritted his teeth against the burning pain in his muscles, and pulled himself towards Attila. The feldkaplan was a big man, and Roel, weakened from the fever, almost couldn’t turn him over. But when he finally managed it was immediately apparent that Attila was dead as well. Anyone missing such a large portion of the throat couldn’t possibly be alive.

Roel fell back and started sobbing.

After a while, he managed to collect himself enough to close their eyes and cross their hands, a fruitless gesture but all he could think to do. Then he gathered all the cloth he could find and balled it up in the corner, then lay down shivering, waiting to die.


	3. Baptism

Matthew woke first. He was lying face down in a bramble patch, and very centimetre of his body hurt. After a few false starts, he managed to get up then almost fell over. He looked down at his arms and winced. Long cuts had ripped his shirt and lacerated the arms beneath. When he felt his face and chest they were just as bad. He was bruised, bitten, but alive. Alive, however that was possible. He looked around. It was afternoon, judging by what little sun filtered down through the thick canopy. He’d been lying here for hours and hours then. He shook his head in confusion. Why had the wolves left them?

_Them. Charles?_ He looked around in sudden panic, but couldn’t see is brother anywhere. Throwing all caution to the wind, he started shouting.

“Charles! Charles, where are you! Goddamnit… Charlie!”

“Matt…?”

Charles’s voice was weak, but it was there. Matthew floundered, ripping away the brambles, adding new cuts on his palms to the rest of the mess that was his body. Finally, he found his brother slumped against a boulder a little ways away. He fell to his knees in front of him and gripped his shoulders.

“You’re alive, thank God, you bastard, I thought I lost you!” He gave a shaky laugh and bumped his forehead against Charles’s. “Get up, come on.“

Charles took his arms and managed to get up to embrace his brother, then broke off with a wince and looked at the blood dried into his shirt.

“How the fuck… how did we survive that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. Maybe they got bored with us.” He dragged his dirty hands through his tangled hair, then froze. “Oh, shit. Roel!”

The both took off running towards the church.

Roel was too hot, too cold. Through bleary eyes he could see the black bruises blooming on his body. He had trouble thinking straight. There were things moving in the dark, stalking him, out for blood... Then the world swam back into focus, and he saw Charles standing there, talking to him.

“…didn’t think you made it, Roel, shit, man, am I glad you’re alive!”

“Barely,” he replied with a weak smile.

Charles sat down beside him. “They didn’t kill you…”

Roel looked at him, eyes unfocused again. “…who?”

Charles frowned and felt his forehead, then shot a concerned glance at Matthew. “Fuck, he’s burning up. The demons, Roel. Don’t you remember?”

“Did that happen? I- I wasn’t sure…”

“What? Of course it happened! You saw it!”

“I’m… I’m not sure what I saw. The fever… I thought I was hallucinating.”

Matthew pointed to the claw marks on his arm. “Does it look like a fucking hallucination did this? We were chased by a flock of bloody great wolves! One of them _spoke_ to me! You saw what they did to Falk and… and the pater…” He turned to look towards the two corpses.

Charles pulled his hands down his face and sat back on the floor. “Shit… They’re dead?”

Roel nodded. “Yeah. I checked.“

Matthew got up and looked at them. Their eyes were closed and arms crossed. Roel must have laid them out. He saw the bloody hole where half of Attila’s throat had been ripped out and shuddered.

“Goddamnit, pater. Of all the ways to go.” He crouched down and lightly touched Falk’s crossed hands. “Goodbye, cantor. Would have liked to get to know you better. Thanks for the song.”

Charles came up behind him and put one hands on his shoulder. “Let’s put them up by the altar,” he said quietly.

Matthew carried Falk, and then both brothers helped carry Attila, laying them down in front of the altar. Rigor mortis has set in, so wrangling the bodies was strangely easy, like carrying bundles of wood. As they arranged the bodies, something clattered to the floor. Matthew bent down and picked up Attila’s rosary. He gripped it tightly, then put it in his pocket. Charles pulled the threadbare altar cloth down and tore it in two, draping a piece over each man. When they were done, they just stood for a while and looked at the two bodies under their pitiful shrouds, until Matthew turned with a curse and went back to Roel.

Charles built a new fire in silence as Matthew fetched some water. They managed to get Roel to drink the brackish liquid and eat some of the meagre field rations from one of Charles’s pouches, then chewed numbly on their own scraps. Matthew rested his head in his hands and stared into the fire.

“What are we going to do?”

Charles sighed. “It’s nearly night again. And it’s going to be a full moon tonight. If we go back out into that forest, we’re dead.”

“But what if they come back here?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t know what brought them here before. Maybe our singing, or the storm. Maybe just chance. But either they come here, or they take us out there. We’re good and fucked either way.”

“Then we might as well take our chances in comfort. We’ll sleep here tonight, and try to get back to the camp in the morning. If we won, it’s going to be fine, we look like we were in a bloody great fight so I think we can spin a good yarn. If the Russians won… whatever, anything’s better than this, right?”

Charles nodded. Roel didn’t reply. He’d started shaking from the chills, and the brothers tried to bundle him up as best they could.

“Just hang on, Roel. Don’t you fucking die on us. Just this night, man. Then we’ll go back.”

Roel gave him a shaky smile. “Sure.”

When Roel finally slipped into an uneasy slumber, they took turns cleaning and binding the largest of each other’s wounds. None of them said it, but as they saw the extent of the damage, it was increasingly unbelievable that they had survived. They should have perished from blood loss alone. Afterwards, they decided to take turns guarding. As Charles slept, Matthew was running Attila’s rosary between his fingers, not praying but going through the motions mechanically. He looked up at the holes in the roof. It was getting brighter as the moon was rising behind the trees. It must be close to midnight. Soon time to wake Charles.

There was a noise. A low moaning, raspy and pained. One of the shrouds in front of the altar was moving. Matthew shook his head, mumbling a prayer as he grabbed the rifle that lay loaded and ready beside him.

“No, no, no… Mother Mary protect us…” He raised the rifle with shaking hands. The figure under the shroud sat up slowly. When the cloth slipped from his head, Matthew could see Falk’s white face in the darkness.

Falk opened his eyes. They were blood-red.

Matthew screamed and instinctively pulled the trigger. The bullet thudded into the altar, leaving a small crater in the solid stone. The shot woke Charles and Roel, the latter stirring weakly and the former jumping to his feet in seconds. The shot seemed not to bother Falk, who was slowly raising his hands up to his face, turning them over like he’d never seen them before. Then he ran them over his face and torso. The skin that had previously been torn by cuts and scrapes was healed over, with no signs of the injuries. Matthew stared at him through the sight. There was something else wrong, more wrong than all the rest of it. Watching Falk, he realised what it was. The man wasn’t breathing. He shuddered and called out.

“Falk…?”

The cantor’s head snapped up, looking straight at him. “Matthew?” His voice was hollow and hoarse, but it was his. Charles was laughing, high and incredulous, a sure sign that he was extremely nervous.

Matthew swallowed and tried to steady his voice. “How are you alive.”

Falk looked scared and confused. “I’m…“

Matthew reloaded his rifle with shaking hands and pointed it towards Falk again. “You were stiff as board, man! You were fucking dead! How can you be alive?” He took a step towards the cantor. “What are you, Falk? Answer me! What are you?!”

Falk put his head in his hands, wailing like a wounded animal. “I don’t… Matthew, help me…”

At that moment, the other shroud began to move as well. Falk’s head snapped to the side and he scrambled to his knees, crawling over to it.

Charles groaned. “Oh no…”

Matthew swung his rifle between the two figures. He felt Charles raising his rifle beside him, falling into formation like they had done so many times before as Falk ripped the shroud from Attila’s prone form. The priest was a pale as him, all wounds healed, even the gaping hole that had been his throat. His cassock was bloodstained and dusty. When he sat up, Falk threw his arms around him. The priest returned the embrace.

“My lad… I thought I had lost you.”

Falk pressed his lips against’ Attila’s forehead. “I’m here, we’re still here.”

Charles laughed again, sounding more insane by the minute. “Pater… what the holy fuck is going on?”

“Greywolves! You made it…” Attila stood up, helped by Falk.

Matthew and Charles both raised their rifles, pointing them at the two men. “Stay! Just… just stay there.”

Attila’s brows furrowed. “What’s wrong? Why the rifles?”

Matthew shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t you remember? That… monster… it tore your throat out.”

Attila’s hand went to his throat. “It… I thought… it was a dream, wasn’t it? We’re alive.”

Charles snapped his mouth shut with an audible clack. “Are you kidding me? It was no fucking dream! They killed you! You’re- you’re not breathing...”

Attila scoffed. “Of course I’m breathing! How could-“

Matthew interrupted him. “You’re. Not. _Breathing_.” He nodded to the cantor. “Neither is Falk.”

The priest raised a finger and moved to reply, but faltered. He put a hand on his chest and held it there, his expression getting dourer each second. After a solid minute, he turned to Falk and put his hand on the man’s exposed chest. Falk put his own hand on top of his and looked back at him in dismay as the realisation slowly hit them both.

All strength left Attila and he fell to his knees, hands balled into fists, and screamed. Falk just stood there, hand on his chest still. The priest screamed until he started sobbing instead, but no tears came. Instead, a trickle of blood ran down his bearded cheek. Falk reached out a hand and wiped it away, looking incredulously at the crimson on his fingertips. He looked back to the others, fear and fury mingling on his face.

“What is this place? What does this goddamned country do to people!?” he screamed.

Charles just shook his head, lowering his rifle, lost for words. Attila looked down at his pale, blood-stained hands, then seemed to realise something and looked up at the brothers with sudden urgency.

“Boys… the wolves… They chased you? I, I remember, they cornered you. Did they bite you?” He got up and started to walk towards Matthew and Charles, anxiety growing on his face. Charles raised his rifle again.

“Don’t move! Just fucking stay there, okay?”

Attila stopped but put his hands out in supplication. “Listen, Matthew, Charles. This is important. Did they _bite_ you?”

Matthew laughed bitterly. “What the fuck do you think? They hunted us through half the forest like it was a game, of course they bit us! I was sure they’d kill us but they just… played…” Matthew trailed off. He looked back to Charles, sudden fear in his eyes.

Charles put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Pater. Do you think… do you think that… this,“ he gestured at the two men by the altar, “will happen to us too?”

Attila pulled his hands down his pale face. “I don’t know. But… please, can we talk?” The brothers looked at each other. Charles threw his hands up.

“What the fuck, this might as well happen.” He turned and sat down by the fire again, close to Roel, mistrusting eyes on Attila and Falk, who huddled together on the other side. Matthew joined him; rifle close at his side.

Attila tugged on his beard and tried to gather his thoughts. “I never told you this… but I wasn’t born in Germany. I was born in Aurel Vlaicu, near Sighișoara in Transylvania. Not far from here. I know this country like the back of my hand, enough about it to want to leave it at an early age.” He scoffed. “Ironic that I’d find myself back here again. When I was a child, there were so many stories told of the dark things nipping at the heels of humanity. We shuttered our windows at night, said prayers in the darkness, hung garlands of garlic and flowers to ward them off. It was a part of life, just as much as the word of Christ.”

Roel coughed, and Attila broke off until Charles had helped him drink some water and settle down.

“There were places you didn’t go. The deep woods, the old ruins, that was their domain. Undead things, cursed in the eyes of God, unholy spawn of Satan. They feed on the living and hunt them for sport, stealing babies from their cradles and make good people live in fear of the dark. They cannot be killed but by the light of day and holy weapons, silver and stakes.” He gestured towards the bandaged cuts on Charles’s arm, then to his own throat. “This is the way they breed, it is said. They bite and kill and leave a seed of corruption, to grow in darkness and bloom in moonlight, animating the dead to new, cursed life.”

He stopped, looking at the brothers. “Greywolves. I’m so sorry. If they bit you, then there’s no hope for you.”

The light of the full moon filtered in through the hole left by the lightning strike. The pale rays crept across the floor, illuminating the little group. Matthew stared up at it, then to his brother, who grabbed his arm in alarm. Matthew felt like his skin was suddenly much too tight. Every hair on his body stood on end, there was a maddening tickle all over, as if he was being bitten by a thousand mosquitoes all at once. Grey hairs were sprouting on his hands as he stared at them in horror, and when he looked back to Charles, his brother’s eyes were turning a golden yellow.

Then came the pain. Matthew fell back on the floor, howling. His bones were moving around, rearranging themselves, elongating and shrinking, tearing muscle and snapping tendons as they went. Each wound healed up as fast as it was inflicted, then tore again, and again, and again. The pain was unbearable, and he screamed until his throat bled. With each scream, his mouth seemed to grow, the jaw lengthening, sprouting sharp fangs. Charles tried to get to him, but fell forwards on the floor, writhing in in his own hell of transformation. Each new wound bled and closed in an infinite loop of torture, moulding their bodies into a new shape like so much clay.

Attila looked on in mute horror, hugging Falk close, the cantor’s hands clasped in desperate prayer. Roel’s face was screwed into a mask of disgust and pity. Finally, mercifully, the screaming stopped, and two massive wolves lay still on the floor. Attila gently untangled from Falk and went up to them, falling to his knees between the wolves, running his hands over their coarse, blood-drenched fur. Matthew looked up at him and whined.

“Oh, lads. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I knew what was out there, and I didn’t warn you. You shouldn’t have followed us.” He buried his face in the thick ruff on Matthew’s neck. Charles raised his head tiredly and licked his hand before falling back again.


	4. Confession

Falk sat with the pathetic pieces of his smashed instrument cradled in his lap. He turned the longest pipe over and over, then twisted it into an unrecognisable lump of metal with no effort at all. He stared at it in disbelief, then threw it hard against the wall.

“What are we going to do, Attila?” He glanced at Roel. “We’re… there’s no way we can take him back now, not like this. And he can’t go by himself.”

Attila hadn’t moved from his place by the Greywolves, threading his hands through their fur. He shook his head sadly. “All we can do is stay here and hope he recovers before the demons return.”

Roel was staring at Attila with his red-rimmed eyes. “Pater… the demon. It said something, called you hollow priest. An oathbreaker.”

Matthew’s ears perked up. “Talked about all of us,” he growled with obvious effort. Falk stiffened visibly but nodded.

Roel kept staring at Attila. “What did he mean? That you’re not a real priest?” There was note of desperation in his voice. “Attila?”

Attila looked away, gripping his crucifix and holding it tightly.

Falk sighed. “What does it matter now? How can telling be worse than what’s already happened?” Attila rested his face in his hands, but still said nothing. After a minute of silence, Falk pinched the bridge of his nose and spoke instead.

“Fine. I’ll start. I went to seminary. I was going to be a priest. My parents were so proud. First in my family, you know? But I didn’t have the knack for it, the reading was too difficult, I just wanted to play music and have fun, go to brothels, smoke opium... There were so many others that were better than me. So I spread lies about them to get them kicked out. Accused them of my own sins.” He laughed, a joyless sound. “It didn’t even work. I got kicked out myself as well. My parents disowned me.” He sighed and looked at the priest. “I’m not a real cantor. I just swept the floors in his church.”

Attila looked at him hopelessly, then shrugged and continued in a low voice, looking at the drummer.

“I’m a real priest, Roel. But I was never a good priest. I stole the church funds, drank of the holy wine, sold forgiveness for cash. Hah! I preached so many fiery sermons on the sin of sodomy. Then he came. So beautiful.” He looked at Falk with longing. “I did everything for him, let him play in the church, bought clothes, drugs…” He ran his hands through his hair and looked skywards. “They found us fucking in the sacristy. We escaped with nothing but the clothes on our backs. We had to leave Germany quickly, got recruited the next day. We were going to follow the army here, then defect, go further south, maybe.”

Roel chuckled weakly. “Yeah. Can’t say I’m a stranger to that. What happens at sea… can’t say I’d do it a in a church though.”

Falk scooted up and sat close to Attila, who put an arm around him. He looked at the shivering drummer.

“What happens at sea… you were a sailor, Roel?”

“Yeah, you can call it that.” Roel grinned.

“A pirate?”

The words came slow and slurred. “Privateer at first, but yeah.” He was silent for a while, looking for the right words. “I loved it. I loved the fighting, I loved the stealing, I loved the killing. Just… I _lived_ so fucking hard, I clung to it with everything. But then the commission ran out, and our captain didn’t want to quit. So we turned pirates. It worked for a while, but…” He sighed. “I sold them out. They were on our tail, so I tipped the navy off to secure my own parole. I couldn’t die, I had to survive! But piracy is a death sentence. So they hung the others, but I survived. I had to watch.” He stared into the flames. “Didn’t love that.”

Attila cleared his throat and patted Charles’s shaggy head. “And you, Greywolves? What was it… stolen name, stolen past?”

Charles growled. It took some getting used to, talking with a mouth full of fangs, but he managed to get the words out.

“Doesn’t matter what it was before. Greywolf now. We’re grifters. Heh… we posed as priest so many times. Took the Lord’s name in vain for profit. Scammed marks of their money. Rich, poor... didn’t matter. If they were stupid enough to fall for it, they deserved it, right? But we got greedy, did one con too many. There was a mob out for blood. Had to get out. The recruiter was down at the docks, no questions asked. We know our way around a forest, got into the Jägers.”

A heavy silence hung in the air. None of them met the other’s eyes, each alone with his own demons.

Finally, Roel broke the silence with a weak laugh. “So, we’re all shit then.”

Matthew huffed. “Seems like it.”

Falk rubbed his eyes. “Murderers, liars, betrayers, sodomists, con-artists, blasphemers.”

Attila crossed himself and looked up into the starry night sky visible in the cracks of the roof. “The Lord grant us absolution for our sins.”

Charles snorted and put his head on his brother’s paws. “Somehow I don’t think he’s listening.”


	5. Extreme unction

The moon was getting close to the treetops, but still shone its pale light over the church and its pathetic graves. Falk was dragging a damp cloth over Roel’s forehead with a worried expression. He turned to the others.

“The fever is getting worse. And I think… I don’t know, but there’s something else wrong. His skin is turning yellow. I don’t think he has much time left.” The brothers padded over and sat beside him. Attila sank down on his knees on the other side. Roel looked at him with unfocused eyes.

“Pater… please… I don’t want to die unshriven.”

Attila grimaced and gestured to himself, the pale skin, the blood-red eyes, the bloodstained cassock. “Look at me, my son. Do you think God would listen to me now? I can’t help you to heaven any more, Roel. Truth be told, I don’t think the Lord has listened to me for many years.”

Roel’s hand flailed and grasped the crucifix dangling around Attila’s neck. Attila gently pried his hand loose and clasped it between his own. Roel had a frenzied look in his eyes.

“Then give me the eternal life, pater! You said it yourself, these demons live forever, they can’t be killed. You’re one of them now. You can do the same thing that demon did!”

Attila drew back in shock. “What?! No! You don’t want this!”

Roel sat up and grasped the edges of his cassock, pulling him close. “Don’t tell me what I want, pater. If I die, I can’t get revenge on these fuckers. I need to live! If I die without the Lord’s forgiveness, I go to hell forever. I’m a freebooter, a murderer, a sinner just as bad as any of you. If you can’t give me heaven, then give me this!”

“So you’d chose a living hell instead?” Attila shook his head in disbelief.

“The alternative must be worse.” Roel released him and fell back against the makeshift bed, panting.

Attila shook his head again and grasped the crucifix, looking fervently at it as if willing it to respond. Roel stretched his hand out and looked at the priest, tears in his tired eyes.

“Please, Attila. I don’t want to die.”

Falk crouched down beside Roel and took the outstretched hand.

“Are you sure, Roel? You’d choose this cursed half-life?”

“A half-life is better than an eternity of torment,” Roel replied.

Falk grimaced, but nodded. “Say that we did it… you’d have a choice. Attila or me could do it, or Charles and Matthew. We couldn’t choose… at least you’d have that. At least that.”

The brothers looked at each other. Charles growled. “This is insane.”

Falk laughed, a short sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. “Everything is insane! Nothing will ever be normal anymore!” Matthew licked his arm, then looked at Roel. He put his large head on the prone man’s chest.

“Alright. Let’s do it, then. If that’s that you want. You need to choose. Vampire or werewolf?”

“Pestilence or cholera,” Charles added under his breath.

Roel closed his eyes. He was still for a long time, until Matthew nudged him with a worried huff. Roel opened his eyes again and pointed at Matthew. The werewolf sighed and stood up. He took a few steps back and squared his shoulders, concentrating. In the moonlight, his body changed, becoming more like that of a human. He grunted in pain as his shoulders realigned themselves, paws turning into hands, spine cracking with the effort of allowing him to stand upright. Charles followed suit until they were both fully in their werewolf form, standing tall above Roel.

“Are you sure, Roel?” he growled. The drummer nodded. Matthew looked at Attila. “Please, pater.”

Attila gave a resigned sigh and placed his hand on Roel’s forehead. “For all the good it will do you… Holy Father, physician of souls and of bodies, Who didst send Thy Only-Begotten Son as the healer of every disease and our deliverer from death, heal also Thy servant Roel from the bodily infirmity that holds him, and make him live a second life through the grace of Christ, by the intercessions of his brothers Charles and Matthew, and of all the saints that would care to listen." He made the sign of the cross over Roel, and stepped back.

Matthew plunged his teeth into Roel’s throat, Charles plunged them into his chest, tearing it open. Roel jerked and coughed as the life left him, running out in red rivulets on the stone floor. As he perished, Charles leaned down and held him until the shaking stopped, his eyes rolling back.

Falk pressed his hands to his eyes and sat back on his heels. “Jesus Christ, Roel, holy hell...“

Charles stood up and carried Roel’s body outside. The others followed. He stopped in the middle of the churchyard and laid it down gently on the moonlit, unkempt mess of mud and grass between the grave markers. The soft beams that still filtered through the trees illuminated the body, casting it in subtle shades of red, grey and black.

Nothing happened.

Charles looked worried. “Do you think- is it too soon? I mean, we were unconscious for a while first, do we have to-“

Roel opened his mouth and gasped for air. Charles jumped back as the drummer started writhing on the ground, kicking up clumps of mud as his body contorted in unnatural ways. His screams of pain echoed between the trees, spooking a flock of crows. The process was over within minutes, and the wolf that used to be a man lay panting on the ground. Where the brothers were mottled grey and black with long ruffs and lithe bodies, Roel was uniformly steel grey with sleek fur, muscular and several hands higher than them. The group approached cautiously.

“Are you alright, Roel?”

The werewolf stood up and shook himself, pelting them with blood and mud. “Fine”, he growled. “Hurts.”

The group breathed a collective sigh of relief, unnecessarily so in the case of Attila and Falk, but old habits die hard.

“Gratias Deo,” Attila muttered. He kissed the crucifix and crossed himself.

As the brothers helped their new packmate clean up, Falk was staring at the crucifix in Attila’s hand. His eyes narrowed.

“Attila. The legends you got told… what did they say about holy symbols?”

“Demons shun them. It burns them, causes pain. Why?”

Falk cocked his head to the side. “And the creature that turned us… it couldn’t take the name of Christ in its mouth.”

Attila turned to him and gave him a sharp look. “No. It couldn’t.”

“So… why can _we_?” Falk gave him an unhinged smile. Attila just stared at him. “You gave Roel the last rites. I swore by Christ. You just kissed the fucking _cross_!” Falk turned to the others. “Quick, say, uh… say the Lord’s prayer!” The werewolves looked taken aback. Falk waved at them. “Come on!”

Matthew started, a tad hesitantly, with the other joining in. “Pater noster, qui es in cœlis; sanctificatur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua…”

Falk waved them into silence. “See? That shouldn’t be possible, should it?”

Attila stared at the crucifix. “No. It shouldn’t. Not by any account I’ve heard.” He clasped the cross to his forehead. “It’s a miracle.”

Charles looked confused. “What difference does it make? We’re still cursed, reciting Latin won’t let us go home!”

“No. But it’ll help us take revenge.” Falk’s eyes were glowing red as he snarled, revealing sharp fangs. “We can move like they do, kill like they do, with fangs and claws and unholy powers. But the Lord has granted us his power too! We’ll live forever in His light, hunting down every last one of those fuckers!” As he spoke, the shadows cast by the moon seemed to pool around his feet, swirling and boiling.

“Yes! Yes! Revenge!” Roel barked, his eyes alight with feral bloodlust. He threw his head back and howled, then picked Falk up and whirled him around like a doll.

Attila cast his eyes to the sky. “Holy Father, is this our redemption? Are we to be your holy weapon against the armies of the undead?”

Matthew shook his head. “We’ll be hunted by everyone, not only the demons. The living will want to kill us too.”

“Let them come!” Roel snarled and put Falk down.

Charles put one hand on Matthew’s back. “They’re right. Besides, what else can we do? I refuse to just sit down and die. If I can take some of them down with me before I perish, I’ll be happy.”

Matthew looked at him, then leaned his forehead against his brother’s and sighed. He looked around at the others.

“It’s decided, then. Attila?”

The priest opened his arms. They all gathered in a circle, Falk locking Attila in a passionate kiss before slipping his arm around the larger man’s waist. Attila looked around at the little group and shook his head with a disbelieving laugh.

“Brothers. It’s us against the world. The forces of heaven and hell will aid and antagonise us both, but we fight by the will of the Lord. Let’s bring His word to the unfortunate undead with fang and flame, with cross and claw. In nomine Patris et Fili et Spiritus Sancti, amen!”

* * *

The moon had set behind the trees. The little church was abandoned yet again, as it had been for decades. The only proof of its recent visitors was the blood spattered on the floor, a few tufts of wolf fur and the remains of a much-loved musical instrument. Far away, the war continued, undisturbed by the events that had transpired in its shadow. Just five men lost among so many others, presumed missing in action. Theirs but to do and die – forever the way of war.


End file.
